


(kinky) boots

by cloudburst



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, this rides the line at crack idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11267613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: Dorian really doesn't understand the Inquisitor's boots. Why are they so tall?It's a dilemma.





	(kinky) boots

**Author's Note:**

> i have a warrior lavellan and the big boots on his legs amuse me; this is shamelessly silly and written to amuse myself, i hope it is some semblance of enjoyable. it takes place prior to the game's conclusion, most likely. who knows
> 
> also the title is a reference to a musical; lavellan's boots are not kinky. They're kinda gross, actually

He always knew that being with the Inquisitor would pose certain challenges—but then buried that thought deep, and didn't struggle or hesitate. He'd known that this was the man he loved, and would always love—immediately recognized Inquisitor Lavellan was all of the clichés. At least, he was all of Dorian's clichés—all desirable aspects of every maker-damned romance story ripped from the Tevinter rags he'd read as an idealistic youth. And _that_ was worth fighting for. 

But, he thinks, this moment is testing his patience, willpower, and even his desire beyond belief. He almost wants to cry out, curse Lavellan for this. But he won't, for Dorian is too strong. Therefore he resigns himself to a malcontented grunt. 

"You know, I can't even begin to comprehend how you pull these things up your legs. Half thigh for a boot?" Pavus pauses to communicate his disgust with a grimace, as his hands gently tug downwards on the leather footwear. "And I understand much less how you expect me to get them off of you." 

Dorian is, for lack of better explanation, reluctant to pull too hard. He doesn't wish to harm Lavellan, but also cannot deny that the Inquisitor is being his own personal brand of insufferable—the barest hints of a grin playing out across his face. 

So Lavellan shakes his head. "Unfortunate being the one to inquisit things, is it not?"

Dorian pauses his work at actively removing the boots, sitting up straighter in his position by the Inquisitor's feet—the man himself laying down, disgustingly high boots propped on Dorian's lap. Dorian had told him not to put his shoes on the bed, or his disgusting and vaguely _bloody_ armor, as any logical sentient being would suggest. Lavellan had ignored the remark, stating that his boots were no more grimy than the rest of him—proceeding to lay down in his full, dingy glory. Dorian's mind would have been in shock had he not recalled that he was dealing with a walking, talking, sarcastic oxymoron of an elf. 

"No, _Amatus_ , what is unfortunate is your making fun of me in the face of satiating myself. They may never come off."

Inquisitor Lavellan laughs at Dorian—he laughs, the bastard—full smile spread across his lips. Dorian loves that smile, just for him in quiet moments, or apparently ridiculous ones like these. He watches as Lavellan sits up, legs still across his lap—but leans forward to rest his forehead against Dorian's shoulder. The flexible bastard. His words are muffled against the off-grey fabric of Dorian's clothing, but he can still hear the absolute mirth in Lavellan's voice. There is a hum before the Inquisitor responds, however—and the hum is thoughtful, at least Dorian would say so. 

"I thought you liked me, Dorian. If I'm correct, and I am, the boots are now a piece of me since they can't be removed, as you said." And Like is not the L word that Dorian would have used; he understands now how tired the Inquisitor is—why his insistence to lay down in full armor is logical. He swears the man may fall asleep on his shoulder if Dorian is not careful, not that Dorian would particularly mind. 

"No, that does _not_ mean—"

"Therefore, the boots are also somewhat of a thing for you. You must like them as well." 

Dorian sighs, and nods as Lavellan lays back down—feet and abhorrent boots still strewn across his lap.

"You know, the only reason I despise these boots?"

Lavellan throws a hand across his forehead—the other at his side. Dorian cannot believe he himself is so _trusted_ by this man with the weight of the heavens upon his shoulders. He hums his answering interrogative to Dorian's question. 

"It's because, you see—" Dorian's hands run gently along the boots where they meet the Inquisitor's thighs. "They block my view of your lovely thighs."

Lavellan scoffs, or snorts. At this point, Dorian is not sure which unsavory noise the Inquisitor meant to make in response. "What is the real reason, _ma vhenan_?" And of course, he asks this without moving anything but his eyes—to glance at Dorian's face. 

"Admittedly they fell out of fashion in Tevinter over a millennia ago. I regret to inform you, _Amatus,_ but you have heinous style."

Lavellan hums, a note of amusement in his smile as he sits up—removing his legs from Dorian's lap, throwing them off the side of his bed. "That is why I keep you around, is it not?"

"Oh yes," Dorian nods. "I've always wanted to be used by someone powerful and sexy. It adds to the charm of the relationship, yet," a momentary pause—the barest hints of a smile curving Dorian's lips. "Your boots _do_ detract from said charm."

Lavellan shakes his head—but when Dorian kisses him, he is persuaded. _The boots must come off._


End file.
